“I did.  Just before I first came to England.  I had been travelling through Tunis before that, and—­well, one doesn’t like to be without these things.  Sir Nigel’s revolver came from India, I believe—­through the agents of a French firm, the makers.”

“But—­” The coroner’s voice was low-pitched, incredulous, “are you trying to tell us you fired a shot that night, Miss Brellier?”

She shook her head, smiling.

“No—­that would be impossible.  But my revolver has always lain in that little secretaire, and I have never had cause to use it since I have been on this side of the Channel.  I was in bed early that night, with a headache.  My uncle will tell you that.  He took me to my room and spent the rest of the evening in his study, as you have already heard from him.  No, I cannot say I murdered Dacre Wynne.  Though I would say that or anything to save Nigel.  But I didn’t discover that this little revolver of mine had ever been fired until yesterday, when I happened to go to my secretaire for a letter which I had locked away in that particular drawer.  Then I took it up and chanced to examine it—­I don’t know why.  Perhaps because it was the same as Nigel’s, I—­” she choked suddenly, and bit at her lips for control.  “Is there not a loophole here, sir, by which Sir Nigel might be saved?  Surely it must be traced who used this revolver, who fired the shot from it?”

Her voice had risen to a piteous note that brought the tears to many eyes in that crowded room.  The coroner coughed.  Then he glanced enquiringly over at Brellier, who had risen from his seat.

“You have something to say about this, Mr. Brellier?”

Brellier made a clicking sound with his tongue.

“I’m afraid my niece has been wasting your time, sir,” he said quietly, “because I happen to have used that little instrument myself five months ago.  We had a dog who was hurt—­you remember Franco, ’Toinette?  And if you carry your mind back you will also recollect that he had eventually to be shot, and that I was forced to perform that unpleasant operation myself.  He was dear to me, that dog; he was—­how do you call it?—­a true ‘pal’.  It hurt me to do this thing, but I did it.  And with that revolver also.  It was light.  ’Toinette must have forgotten that I mentioned the matter to her.

“I am afraid this can have no bearing upon the case—­though the dear God knows that I would do all I could to bring this terrible thing to an end, if it lay in my power.  That’s is all, I think.”

He bowed, and sat down again, beckoning his niece back to her seat with a little frown.  She cast a piteous look up into the coroner’s face.

“I’m sorry,” she said brokenly; “I had forgotten about that.  Of course, it is true, as my uncle said.  But I was so anxious—­so anxious!  And there seemed just a chance.  You understand?”